


Sunday After Church

by justalittlehungry



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Hannibal's Pretentious Cooking, Implied Relationships, M/M, No One Likes An Aspic, Potluck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 02:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlehungry/pseuds/justalittlehungry
Summary: Hannibal is in Hell, and it's all Will's fault.Will dragged him to this church, for what reason he can hardly fathom, and now that the service is over, he has to face one of the most appalling, disgusting, horrifying events of his adult life: the potluck lunch.





	Sunday After Church

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skitenoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitenoir/gifts).



> I was inspired by a comment left on "Accent" about Hannibal's absurdly pretentious cooking and how that would never fly at a potluck
> 
> The character Marjorie is a nod to the fictitious turkey-baking grandmother in Amazonia_8's absolutely hilarious "Feast of the Assumptions"

Hannibal Lecter is in Hell.

He glares at Will, who is chatting merrily with Marjorie, a little blue-haired old lady, about the best way to cook a turkey. Usually, Hannibal might appreciate Will attempting to socialize more, even if his solitude and general social uneasiness worked to ingratiate him more towards Hannibal. He’s not a monster. Well. Maybe. He probably knows way more about turkeys than Marjorie does, anyway.

Point being, as much as Hannibal actually sort of wants Will to have healthy social interactions, he distinctly does not want them to happen right now. Not when it means going to the church Will himself hasn’t attended in years, and certainly not when it means braving the hellscape of the after-service potluck.

Hannibal picks up a short plastic cup of supermarket lemonade. He sips it, wincing at the simultaneously too sweet, too tart, and too weak flavor, then grabs a paper plate to enter whichever Circle of Hell is devoted to church potlucks. A line of questionably clean crockpots with even more questionable contents stares at him, welcoming him to this nightmare.

He passes by the half-empty crockpots, bowls, and platter and the disdainful dishes they contain, trying to ignore the excited chatter of the people in front and behind him.

“Ooh, meatballs, lovely.”

“Awesome, Jake made his baked beans.”

“Tiny quiches! Oh, how fancy. So French!”

 “Sarah, have you ever tried the ambrosia? It’s to die for.”

“Should I get the Greek pasta salad, the caprese pasta salad, or the BLT pasta salad?”

“Any should be fine, but I’m going for the potato salad today.”

Hannibal disregards most of the too-mayonaised, too-boiled, too-marshmallowy food, only grabbing a small nibble here and there (the quiches do look nice, and as much as he wishes to deny it, he does have a bit of a soft spot for deviled eggs). But then, near the end of the buffet line, he stops short.

Almost every dish in line had at least half missing, some, like the less-spinach-more-sour-cream spinach dip, were nearly empty. None were untouched. Except one.

There, nestled between the corn salad and the lemon bars, was Hannibal’s untouched aspic.

Untouched may be the wrong word. As he looks closer, he can see a sharp groove in the clear gelatin, like it was prodded harshly. As he goes to pick up the serving knife to take a slice of the carefully designed, cooked, and prepared _truite en gelee_ , he hears the people behind pick their commentary back up.

“Ew, what is that? It’s all clear and wiggly.”

“I think it’s some sort of . . . fish jello?”

“Why would anyone make a fish jello? No one eats fish jello. That’s not even a thing. ‘Fish jello’. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard all day, and I listened to Bobby talk about lizard people on the moon for 25 minutes earlier.”

Rude.


End file.
